One Hundred Short Crossovers
by Montana-Bob
Summary: Response to Procella's Shuffle Challenge. One hundred short crossovers with books, movies, tv shows, short stories... (2: 'The Star'. A new take on a classic Arthur C. Clarke story) (3: 'House, MD'. House declared Kenny dead three days ago; how could he have just shown up an hour ago as a new patient?) (4: 'The Stand.' Everyone only thought Kenny was immune to the super flu)
1. Chapter 1

(This chapter was published with Procella's kind permission.)

Montana-Bob snapped his fingers and Kenny and Butters magically appeared on the stage next to him. They were dressed for bed, wearing boxer shorts and tee shirts.

"Oh _shit_" Kenny grumbled irritably. "Not this again-!"

"It's okay, Kenny!" Bob rushed forward to comfort him. "This isn't going to be like that time last week, when Procella dropped you off in the middle of the Andes Mountains. When we're finished talking to her, I'll put you guys safely back to bed."

"You'd better!" Kenny snarled. "I died like seven times trying to get home last time. Butters was worried sick!"

"I sure was!" Butters chirped.

"I know, guys," Bob consoled. "Hey, if you want, when we're done with her, we can dump her off someplace weird…and maybe give her a funny appearance while she's here."

"The possibility of messing with her is the only thing keeping us from leaving right now," Kenny said. Bob nodded understandingly.

"Okay, so how would you like Procella to look?"

Cartman shouted from offstage: "How about a giant taco…that craps ice cream?"

"No." Kenny said immediately. "That's been done before. It has to be something different."

Bob looked at Kenny's soulmate. "How would _you_ like Procella to appear to us, Butters?'

"Well, gee, I dunno," Butters said, mashing his fists together. "I think it might be kind of nice if she was a…a giant snowperson! And every time she speaks, money from all over the world falls out of her mouth!"

Bob didn't even think about it, since that seemed so completely logical; he snapped his fingers and Procella appeared on stage as a six foot tall snowperson. She looked kind of like Frosty might have in the classic Christmas cartoon…if Tim Burton had produced it. She stared silently at them, not moving.

"Well, how come she's just standin' there?" Butters asked, nervously poking a finger into her snow.

"Oh!" Bob said. "I almost forgot the most important part!" He snapped his fingers, and a black stovepipe hat like the one Abe Lincoln wore appeared in Butters' hands. "Would you like to do the honors Butters?"

Butters smiled shyly and set the hat on top of Procella's snow head. An amazing transformation happened. Brilliant sparkles of multicolored light flowed down her snow body, and her expression suddenly became lively and animated.

"Happy…birthday!" Procella said. A couple of Argentinian pesos fell from her mouth. Butters clapped his hands, delighted.

"Procella!" Bob said self-importantly, as if he was in charge of what was happening. "You are here because of the challenge you issued on fanfiction dot net. I have brought you here to accept your challenge, as long as you are willing to accept my terms. Are you?"

Procella tried to answer, but instead of words a flood of American quarters and Krugerrands poured from her mouth.

Bob nodded. "I'll take that as a yes. My terms are as follows: First, this challenge may take quite some time to complete. Secondly, it will consist entirely of short crossover stories which will appear as future chapters after this preamble. These will be crossovers with movies, plays, novels, TV shows, individual episodes of TV shows, classic short stories…" Bob trailed off as he ran out of ideas. "Some will hopefully be funny, some will be poignant, some will probably be completely moronic, only time will tell. And third: These are in response to music in _my_ iPod…and I've got, like, really weird taste in music. Do you agree to these terms?"

Procella's snow head nodded solemnly. "Yes." A single Japanese 500 Yen coin fell to the stage and rolled away, Butters chasing after it.

"Then we are in agreement." Bob stated. Everyone seemed to be; Kenny just wanted to go home.

"Can we send her to Scottsdale now?" Kenny wanted to know.

"No!" Butters protested. "You can't send a snowperson to Scottsdale, Kenny! She'll melt!"

"But I'm going to put her back into her regular body," Bob reminded him.

Butters considered this and nodded. "Oh, all right then." Bob snapped his fingers and Snowprocella vanished, presumably reappearing in Scottsdale in her human form. "Thanks guys!" Bob shook Kenny's hand and high-fived Butters. "See you around!" He snapped his fingers and they vanished…except for their clothes, which fell to the stage with a soft whisper. Bob chuckled, hoping they didn't mind _too_ much.


	2. Chapter 2 The Star

_"You can stop giving me the stink eye anytime now Wendy," Montana-Bob said irritably. "I really haven't done anything wrong."_

_"Sure you haven't," Wendy Testaburger sneered. "Where should I start, actually?"Bob was finally realizing why she and Stan had broken up so many times. "First of all," she said. "You're publishing the second story from the second song you heard _first_. That's cheating right there!"_

_Bob pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay…first of all, just for the sake of accuracy: This is actually the second story from the _third_ song I listened to; but I can explain! The first song was Nazareth's 'Rose in the Heather', and it's a fucking _instrumental_…so I got no inspiration from that at all! The second song was nice and all and I started writing a story about it, but I wanted to find out what the next song I was going to write a story about was, so I listened to it. I can't help it if I had such a cool idea that this story practically wrote itself."_

_"Sure it was easy! You stole the story from Arthur C. Clarke!"_

_"I did _not_ 'steal the story from Arthur C. Clarke,'" Bob snapped. "In case you haven't noticed, _Windy,_ there's probably about four hundred billion pieces of literature floating around out there…in print, scribbled inside notebooks, on fan fiction sites... There's probably not a single good idea that hasn't been done more than once. All I did was take a really _great idea,_ write a whole new story around it, and repackage it as a South Park crossover. This is no different than what they did with the movie 'Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? which is just a creative retelling of Homer's 'The Odyssey. Heck, Wendy, _this_ story was made into a 'Twilight Zone' episode!"_

_Wendy seemed to consider this._

_"And besides, Mr. Clarke's 'The Star' was originally published in November of 1955. It's been reprinted a bunch of times because it's so great that it needed to be…but not so much lately. If nothing else, this may be a way to bring this story to a few people who otherwise never would have had the opportunity to experience it. That's not to say that a casual reader wouldn't be better served finding Mr. Clarke's story and reading it; but a fan of South Park might enjoy this version more."_

_Wendy still didn't seem convinced. "Well, all right," she said grudgingly. "But I'm going to be watching you."_

**Chapter Track: Losing my Religion – R.E.M.**

**Crossover with: Short story 'The Star' by Arthur C. Clarke**

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the above.

Pastor Kenny McCormick was almost startled out of his chair when the soft knock came at his cabin door. Even though he had hoped this knock would come tonight, it still startled him. He finally looked away from the crucifix on the wall next to the computer monitor. He'd been staring at it for over an hour, hoping to hear the calm, soft voice that he had come to depend on to guide him for most of his life. He was pretty sure he would never hear that voice again.

Kenny stood, every movement a careful measured effort in the one-sixth gravity they maintained aboard the starship. He made his way across his tiny cabin and unlocked the door and opened it, eager to see the man who was waiting on the other side for him.

"Hey, Butters," Kenny said, trying his hardest to sound cheerful.

Ensign Leopold 'Butters' Stotch was trying to look happy as well. The events of the past two weeks had weighed as heavily on him as it had on the rest of the crew, perhaps more so, and it showed in the haunted look in his eyes. It was something they had all been struggling with, and just in the past hour Kenny had discovered a final piece of the puzzle. _If you knew what I just learned,_ Kenny thought. _You might turn and walk away right now._

The knowledge Kenny possessed and would soon have to share would rock worlds and shatter the foundations of some of mankind's oldest institutions. He wished anyone but he had made this discovery.

"Hey Kenny." Butters was the only member of the crew who called him by his first name. Everyone else either called him 'father' or 'Pastor McCormick.' Chief Engineer Cartman called him 'Preacher', usually with a sneer. _He's going to have a field day in a few hours_, Kenny thought.

Kenny stepped back as Butters came into his cabin. "Gonna have trouble sleeping again tonight?" They made their careful way to Kenny's desk.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to sleep again, Kenny," Butters said sadly. His impossibly blue eyes were shiny and downcast. He'd given up trying to look cheerful the moment Kenny had closed his door.

"It's been a really difficult couple of weeks," Kenny said. They sat down on opposite sides of the desk, Kenny already pulling open the large drawer at the bottom and taking out two small brandy snifters and a bottle of brandy. He poured their glasses half-full, the amber liquid flowing like thin syrup in the low gravity.

"Kenny." Butters said simply. They raised their glasses across the desk and gently clinked them together.

If he knew it would work permanently, Kenny would reprogram an airlock to malfunction and step into the vacuum of space and die while his blood boiled inside his veins and his eyes burst from his head. Or he would find a way around the engine room's multiple defenses and walk into her reactor core and incinerate himself. Or he would kill himself any way he could…but it wouldn't matter. He would just come back the next day, and still be facing the same terrible knowledge that right now only he possessed. If he didn't share his discovery, someone else would; but it would be remembered across the span of the galaxy that man had colonized as _his_ discovery.

"I just feel so awful, y'know?" Butters said. "If only they'd had just a little more time…"

"I know how you feel," Kenny replied, looking anywhere but at Butters. He wanted to share his new knowledge, but decided not to; the troubled ensign would know soon enough anyway.

"We came all the way out here to find out if there's other life in the universe; at least now we know there used to be." Leave it to Butters to try to look for the good in any situation.

"I keep thinking." Kenny sipped his brandy. "Maybe they only showed us the best of themselves, you know?"

Butters shook his head sadly. "I don't think so, Kenny."

They sat in comfortable silence, taking some comfort in each other's presence.

Their mission had started out routinely enough: Investigate a star that had gone supernova eons ago, thousands of light years from earth, learn what they could about it and the space surrounding it, and ultimately decide how and if it could be exploited for profit. Even before they had reached the dead star, however, their attention was drawn to something else much more interesting.

On their way in, they had chanced upon a single planet orbiting this burned out cinder. It was this former sun's Pluto, orbiting at the distant edge of darkness where it had mostly withstood the blast of its sun's demise. They had aimed their instruments toward this insignificant ball of rock expecting to find nothing of interest, but instead their attention was drawn to something completely unexpected.

They had discovered the monolith.

Rising above this dead world like a misplaced Washington Monument, it had probably been twenty miles tall before the heat from the exploding star had melted it down to a stump a quarter its original size, like a forgotten candle. It was clearly the work of intelligence, and clearly intended to be a beacon to anyone passing by. Their original mission was abandoned to explore mankind's first evidence of intelligent life outside of its own cradle.

Five of them had gone down to the surface of this tiny moonlet. Once they'd sent word home of what they had discovered, two large research vessels were dispatched from earth and would arrive within the week traveling at maximum speed, many times that of light.

What they found buried in caves deep beneath the monolith was a veritable Smithsonian Institute of artifacts, treasures left behind tens of thousands of years ago by a civilization who had known for years that their sun was dying and their days were numbered. They discovered paintings and sculptures made by a race that didn't look much different than man, only they had learned to cooperate with each other, and created a magnificent society where the individual was rewarded for his work and everyone could prosper, and no one did without. They had carried these treasures from their own world much closer to their treasonous sun to this distant planet for safekeeping.

They discovered countless pages of carefully preserved texts and documents, as well as simple primers that allowed them to easily decipher the language. There was enough material buried within these pages to keep scholars busy for generations, but they had read enough already to learn about the tragic final years of this civilization.

They were advanced enough to send ships to other worlds within their own solar system…but they didn't yet possess the secrets of interstellar travel that could have allowed at least a few of them to escape the coming cataclysm and continue their race; so instead they had left this memorial behind for some future explorer to find. It was their only way to let someone else in the universe know they had once lived.

The most haunting image of all was an enormous mural that had been constructed to survive the harsh conditions of space for however long it took for someone to discover it. They had inscribed a title over it, which translated to roughly _The Final Sunset_, and depicted hundreds of them lined up along the shore of a beautiful turquoise ocean, while their bloated and angry sun hovered just above the horizon. They were of all sizes, children and adults alike, doing the equivalent of holding hands as they looked toward the sea.

Kenny had set this picture as his computer desktop, and realized suddenly that they were both staring silently at it. He raised the Brandy bottle questioningly, and refilled their glasses when Butters nodded.

Butters raised his glass to Kenny's computer. "To them," he said, draining his brandy in two gulps.

"To them," Kenny responded, emptying his glass as well. They looked at each other sadly. In another life, one where most of Kenny's hadn't suddenly turned into an enormous lie, perhaps they could have found comfort together in each other's arms. He knew Butters wanted him that way, and was pretty sure Butters knew he returned the feelings. _Perhaps tomorrow we can,_ Kenny thought. _But I don't think you'll want me anymore._

As if Butters had read his mind, he said: "Kenny, if there's anything you need-" he nodded as if to emphasize _anything._ "Y'know, if you just want to talk, or anything at all. My cabin is right down the hall."

Kenny nodded and they bid each other good night. Butters was a bit unsteady after two drinks, and Kenny hoped he would be able to sleep. At least if he fell, he wouldn't injure himself in the low gravity.

Kenny didn't just attempt to tend to the spiritual needs of the crew; he also had degrees in astronomy and astrophysics, and as such it was his job to crunch the numbers of all the data they had gathered. He now knew precisely when this star had exploded, and when its light (traveling six trillion miles a year) had finally reached earth, to blaze for a few hours like a searchlight in the night sky. This knowledge made a mockery of what Kenny had devoted his life to, and made it impossible for him to ever again believe in a just and merciful God, or in a universe where things, even terrible things, happen for a reason. What had happened here was beyond senseless, and Kenny was suddenly infuriated by it.

He raised the bottle to his lips, the liquid flowing slowly into his mouth in the microgravity. Once it hit his throat, it lit a fire inside him that went all the way down. He kept drinking anyway until the bottle was almost empty before he had to stop.

"Why, God?" Kenny asked, staring at the crucifix, his voice raspy from the liquor scorching his throat. "Why did you do this? It's not bad enough that I can never die? And that I'll always be the one who discovered…" He trailed off; he could find no words to finish that thought. Instead he cried out helplessly, "They were a far better people than we can ever hope to be! You should have destroyed our sun instead!"

He tipped the bottle up again and didn't stop swallowing until it was empty. He realized he had probably just drunk enough to die from alcohol poisoning, and even though he knew he'd be back in a few hours, he would welcome the brief respite.

"God!" He screamed and hurled the empty bottle at the crucifix as hard as he could. It hit the wall harmlessly without breaking and dropped gently to the floor. "There's three hundred billion stars in the galaxy you could have destroyed." He scanned his desk for something else to throw. "Why did you have to use this one, just so one day it would shine over Bethlehem?"


	3. Chapter 3 House, MD

_"So, you're finally writing the story you should have written first…second, from the _second_ song you listened to," Wendy said sarcastically. "This is going really well so far." Montana-Bob was face-planted with his forehead against his desk. _

_As nonchalantly as he could, he pulled his phone from his pocket and, holding it out of sight under the desk, sent a text message to Stan: __**Come and get your woman before I strangle her.**_

**Chapter Track: Dr. Feelgood – Motley Crue**

**Crossover With: House, M.D.**

_Summary: House declared Kenny dead three days ago; how could he have just shown up an hour ago as a new patient?_

_Disclaimer: I own none of the above (except Montana-Bob)._

Dr. Gregory House threw his marking pen against the white board in frustration. "You _idiots_" he said angrily, turning around to glare at his team sitting around the conference room table.

Drs. Foreman and Chase sat back, looking at each other, puzzled. "What's the problem now, House?" Foreman asked. "You have the patient's history, family medical history…"

House looked at the chart he had been holding to write notes on the white board. "You've given me the wrong patient's chart, you morons!"

Foreman and Chase looked at each other, now clearly worried. Mixing up a patient's chart was almost as grievous an error as giving a patient the wrong medication.

"House," Foreman said cautiously, "That _is_ the right chart; Chase and I both confirmed the patient's name with the admitting nurse, the patient's boyfriend kept calling him by the same name that's on the chart, and they both insisted on seeing you…"

House's eyes narrowed at the word 'boyfriend'. He looked at the chart again, specifically at a line that normally was of no interest to him: **Patient Name: McCormick, Kenneth. **It was the mention of the boyfriend that suddenly had him worried.

Deeply concerned about something much worse than a misidentified patient, House abruptly picked up his cane from the white board and hobbled from the room, throwing a "wait here" over his shoulder as he limped into the hallway.

"Um…" Dr. Chase said a long moment later. "I'm sure this is a test of some sort. Are we really supposed to wait here like he said…or should we be following him?"

"He didn't say where he was going," Dr. Allison Cameron observed, uncrossing and recrossing her ankles under the table. "But if he took the chart with him, and thinks we have the wrong patient…"

"He's going to go _see_ the patient!" Foreman and Chase said together. That was all it took to get them moving; three chairs squeaked across the floor simultaneously as they rose together to hurry after him.

House had reached the elevators, stepped into one and pushed the button to take him to the second floor. He saw his best friend, Dr. James Wilson, walking down the hall to join him and swung his cane up as the elevator door began closing. The door bounced off the cane and trundled open again.

"Thanks, House," Wilson said once he was standing beside him and they were waiting for the door to close. "So…where are you zooming off to this early?"

"I'm going to see a patient, Wilson!" he replied with unusual cheerfulness, knowing Wilson would jump all over that, and trying not to let anything into his voice that would betray the fact that he was actually terrified of what he might find once he'd done so.

"My feet suddenly got very cold, House. Hell must have just frozen over."

"Now, now, cynicism is _my_ shtick; you need to find something else and make it your own... although the innocent boy scout has always worked well for you." They saw House's office door fly open and his team hurrying toward the elevator. House used his cane to once again block the elevator door from closing, and seeing this, they slowed down. "And are we having lunch later?"

"I have surgery at eight," Wilson replied. "I should be finished by 12:30. Am I buying again?"

"Don't you usually?" When House's team was fifteen feet away, he raised his cane again, only this time to stab the "close door" button. The elevator door slid shut, Foreman's annoyed look the last thing they saw of them before the door closed.

"Nice, House," Wilson said, laughing.

House smiled in return. "I'm just keeping them on their toes."

There was a moment of companionable silence. "So…" Wilson finally said. "To what does…" he took the patient chart House was holding and looked it over. "Kenneth McCormick owe the pleasure of a personal visit from you? This looks like simple pneumonia in an otherwise healthy young adult."

"I'm a doctor, Wilson. How am I going to diagnose my patient properly without examining him?"

The door opened on the second floor. "House, there are so many things wrong with what you just said I don't know where to start. Hold that thought and we'll continue this later over bad cafeteria food."

"Have a nice surgery Wilson." House limped down the hallway, his thigh aching more than usual. He badly wanted a couple Vicodin to at least take the edge off of the pain, but he also realized it could be a very bad idea right now. When House entered the private patient room of Kenneth McCormick, his worst fears were realized. He recognized the man lying in the bed with an I.V. going into his arm, as well as the very worried looking blond haired boyfriend holding his other hand. House even remembered his name: Leopold, but he preferred to be called 'Butters.' House had declared this patient dead three days ago.

His lips tightened as he remembered how painful detoxing from Vicodin had been, and walked over to the bed, looked at them for a moment, and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I know you came all the way from Colorado to see me, but I can't take your case. I have an excellent team of diagnosticians who…"

"We don't _want_ to see your team!" Butters said, angry as well as frightened now. "We came here to see you!"

House was giving Kenny a very long and wary look. "I'm sorry…I can't." He turned suddenly to leave.

"Hold it!" Kenny said loudly and went into a coughing fit. Butters helped him sit up and gently thumped his back, and when Kenny could breathe again he gasped out, "You at least owe us an explanation."

House stopped and, after a long moment, turned to face them again. Kenny saw a look in his eyes that even Dr. Wilson had only seen a couple of times: Genuine fear. The last time Wilson had seen it was two years ago, just before House had checked himself into rehab.

"I'll talk to you…alone," he finally said, looking from Kenny to Butters. Kenny stared back for a moment, then reached up with the arm that didn't have an I.V. line in it and stroked Butters' cheek. Butters suddenly looked hurt.

"Aw, Kenny…really? There's something you can say to him that you can't say in front of me?"

"Just for a few minutes, love." Kenny took his hand again and squeezed. "You want me to get well, right?"

Butters nodded sadly. "Oh…okay."

He slowly walked to the door, and as he was leaving the room, House called after him: "Don't let anyone from my team in this room!"

House limped to the other side of the bed and sat in the chair Butters had vacated. "Well," he began, and for once had no idea what to say in follow up.

"We researched you, dude," Kenny implored when House seemed reluctant to speak. "We know you're the best diagnostician in the country; it's why we came to you. Why won't you help me?"

"My team—"

"We didn't come here to see your _team_, Goddammit."

House sighed, thinking that perhaps he owed this 'man' an explanation, even if he wasn't really there. House wondered if he was in bed dreaming, or standing in his kitchen (or his bedroom closet, or his office) having this conversation with a wall. "If you researched me carefully enough, you'd know I was hospitalized two years ago and went into rehab."

"Yes, for Vicodin addiction. We know about that, and we don't care. What does this have to…"

"Because it's starting again. After rehab, I needed the Vicodin again for my leg, and I thought I had it under control this time, but it seems I was wrong. I was hallucinating right before I went for treatment two years ago, and I'm hallucinating _you_ right now. It's…impossible for you to be here."

Kenny's eyes widened as he suddenly realized what was troubling him. _Oh shit…_

"So…" Kenny said cautiously. "Were _you_ the one who declared me dead three days ago?"

Dr. House stared at Kenny, rendered speechless for a moment by that question, something which no interaction with a patient had ever done in quite this way before. He finally replied warily, "You _were_ dead. I did CPR for fifteen minutes on you. Your boyfriend acts like he doesn't even remember that-"

"What if I told you that you aren't hallucinating, Dr. House? What if I told you that I'm actually real…and that I know I died here three days ago, _no _one except you remembers it, and I'm going to die again soon if you don't cure me this time?"

"The hallucination is telling me I'm not hallucinating," House replied. "If you were real, you'll understand why I'm not comforted by that line of reasoning."

Kenny decided to switch tactics; this was uncharted territory. "Dr. House…I know this is going to be hard for you to believe. But I've died, like, _hundreds _of times…and I always come back again a day or so later. Usually the people around me don't remember anything about it afterward; you're only the third person who ever has." He sat up straighter because this next point really needed to be emphasized. "I can't explain it any better than that. I'm asking you to help me, and whether you believe me or not, no one else can ever know about this; not your team, and definitely not Butters. It…let's just say it'll lead to consequences neither of us wants to deal with."

"And they'll just think I'm hallucinating anyway." It occurred to him that, hallucination or not, this was one of the most interesting conversations he'd had in awhile. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing; after all, he'd learned some interesting things about himself the last time he was hallucinating talking to dead people. A conversation with Wilson's dead girlfriend had once helped him solve a case and save a patient's life.

"So, how does this work, your dying and coming back? Where do you go when you're dead?"

"I'll tell you what, Dr. House: If you get me well and don't let me die again, I'll take you out, get you as drunk as you want and tell you all about it. We're also going to make a nice donation to this hospital, as long as Butters doesn't find out anything about this. And even if I am just a hallucination, you have to admit this will be interesting. Fair enough?"

House's lips quirked in a rare smile. "Fair enough. So, how do I begin treating a hallucination?"

"Start by telling me this: What happened after I died three days ago?"

House's eyes narrowed. "We got some lab work back on you, two hours later," he said bitterly; losing a patient was always a personal affront to him, especially when one was lost over something as simple as recalcitrant pneumonia. "It turns out we were treating you for the right disease, but in the wrong way. We treated you for pneumonia, but we were using the standard protocol of broad spectrum antibiotics; but it turned out that you were infected with a particularly resistant strain of Staph aureus, and what you needed was a stronger and more targeted antibiotic. In other words…" Dr. House shook his head, looking at the I.V. bag hanging over Kenny's bed. "We gave you the ten cent pill, when we should have given you the hundred dollar one."

"So, give me the hundred dollar pill now," Kenny said. "Before it's too late, and I die again."

House bowed his head. "That would be…_impossible_ to do." He hated the word 'impossible'. "In order to prescribe that, I need to be able to medically justify it, which I can't because we don't have your current lab results back yet, and there's no record here-" He held up Kenny's chart. "…of your previous lab tests. I just remember them…"

His train of thought suddenly derailed. The usual brand of straightforward logic he would normally apply could never work in a unique situation like this, or he'll just repeat what happened three days ago. He thought back to that awful moment when this patient had suddenly and unexpectedly taken a turn for the worse. He had gone from ill to dead in the space of just a few minutes, and even though the nurses had performed their jobs perfectly, rushing into the room with the crash cart seconds after his monitors had flatlined, and even though Dr. House himself had performed CPR for almost fifteen minutes, Kenny had died. His memory of Butters' scream when he had finally stepped back from the bed and shook his head had awoken him from nightmares every night since.

He _really_ hated the word 'impossible'.

"All right," House said, standing up and setting his cane firmly in front of him. "You know what? Let's forget protocol. I'm pretty sure the Hippocratic Oath can apply to hallucinations too. At least the 'do no harm' part is safe."

He limped to the door and opened it just wide enough to stick his unshaven face through. "Hey, Butters!"

Butters looked over Dr. Foreman's shoulder. For a moment, House looked like Jack Nicholson in _The Shining_, sticking his face through the door he had just destroyed with an axe and shouting 'Here's Johnny!'

"I—I'll see you later, fallas," he said, hurrying back to Kenny's room, leaving Drs. Forman and Chase looking confused in his wake.

"This is going to seem really weird Butters," Kenny had a hopeful look in his eyes. "But Dr. House is going to help us. It's just going to be a bit unorthodox."

"I need to get something out of the Pharmacy," Dr. House explained. "Without Marco the only Pharmacist on the planet with eyes all around his head catching me doing it. Can you distract him long enough?"

"Butters is the most distracting thing currently this side of the Mississippi," Kenny said, reaching out to take Butters' hand and lacing his fingers through it. "You should have plenty of time to stock up on whatever you need for a month."

Butters looked at Kenny and laughed. "What do you think Kenny? Should I wiggle my ass or use the scatterbrained housewife routine?"

"Scatterbrained housewife, definitely." House answered for him. "Marco is impervious to the wiles of the male ass. I'll go in first; come in about one minute after me."

House left the room and hobbled across the hall to the hospital pharmacy. Marco, the pharmacist on duty, already knew not to let Dr. House anywhere near where the narcotics were stored but House made an immediate right turn into the area where the antibiotics were instead.

"Can I help you find something, Dr. House?" He certainly wasn't trying to steal Vicodin and might even be looking for something important.

"Just seeing what germ killing potions you have available in case I need some for a patient," House replied. Butters entered the pharmacy at that moment and made his way immediately to the 'over the counter' section. He spent mere moments glancing over the rows of brightly colored packages before grabbing three items and setting them on the counter beside the cash register. House tipped his chin toward the counter. "Why don't you go help your customer? I'll let you know if I need anything."

"Excuse me, sir," Butters said when he had Marco's attention. "But can you tell me what the difference is between these two medicines?" He pushed two packages closer to Marco: Benadryl tablets and a bottle of 'generic allergy relief' pills.

Marco didn't have to pick up either one to reply. "Well sir, they both contain 25 milligrams of the same ingredient, Diphenhydramine Hydrochloride. One is just the generic version so it costs less…but they both do the same thing."

"Then, what's the difference between _these_ two?" Butters moved the Benadryl back and pushed a bottle of 'generic sleep aid' in its place, like he was moving a couple of chess pieces on a board only he could see. "They both have the same thing, Diphen…Diphenhydra…"

"Diphenhydramine Hydrochloride," the pharmacist repeated, less patiently this time.

"Right!" Butters chirped. "Diphenhydramine Hydrochloride." He pronounced it perfectly this time. "Except these're both 25 milligrams of the same ingredient, both bottles have 24 pills in them, but the sleep aid costs twice as much as the allergy relief medicine! Does that mean it costs two times more to treat insomnia as it does allergies with the same medicine?" Butters was blinking his eyes in a way that would have made Kenny want to spend the rest of the day in bed with him. It made Marco simply want to give this strange customer all three bottles free of charge just to get rid of him.

House chuckled, finally spotting the slim clear I.V. bag of the antibiotic he was looking for. If things went well and didn't head south in the next six hours, he thought he might enjoy having a conversation with this 'Butters' guy as well. He shook his head, hoping his latest bout with psychosis passed, not even sure if he _was_ psychotic (because all this seemed pretty goddamn real) and plucked the clear bag from the shelf, slid it into the pocket of his lab coat and turned to limp toward the door. Butters was still prattling on.

"And if I bought the cheaper allergy medicine to treat my insomnia, would it still work?"

"I've seen what I need Marco!" House said brightly, pausing at the door to lean on his cane. It was all he could do not to laugh at the flustered look in the pharmacist's eyes as he looked up at him for a moment. Butters had managed to thoroughly rattle the poor guy, and House wondered if there would ever be a way he could tell Wilson about this.

He limped across the hall, his thigh hurting terribly, but he realized that, no matter how all this turned out, he was probably going to have to give up his beloved Vicodin again.

"I'm going to have to monitor you for all kinds of possible side effects," Dr. House told Kenny a minute later as he hooked up the I.V. bag to the line already going into Kenny's arm. "You could have liver or renal failure, an allergic reaction… I'm supposed to perform all sorts of lab work before giving you this medication." He looked up for a moment as the door opened and Butters came in, closing the door in Dr. Foreman's face. Then he looked back at his patient, watching for any signs of an immediate allergic reaction as the antibiotic began running into his arm. Everything seemed fine, and House settled in for a long afternoon.

0-0-0-0-0

At 1:30, Wilson walked in the door carrying two Styrofoam cafeteria 'to go' boxes and two large drinks. Butters jumped up to stop him from coming in, but House held up his cane, blocking him.

"It's okay." House lowered his cane once Butters had stopped. "Wilson's a friend…aren't you, Dr. Wilson?"

Dr. Wilson looked around the room cautiously. Just the fact that House was actually _visiting_ a patient was strange enough; the fact that he'd been in here all morning (and had skipped out on a free lunch) was positively unnerving.

"Of course I am," Wilson replied. His eyes silently asked House: _What are you doing?_ He handed House his lunch and pulled another chair from the corner and sat next to him.

House opened his lunchbox and immediately pulled the bun off the top of the hamburger. He pulled three pickle slices off the congealed cheese and ketchup on top of the burger and held them up.

"Pickle?" He asked, looking at Butters. Butters reached out and eagerly took the pickle slices from House.

"Sure!" He put all three in his mouth together and crunched on them, his eyes flicking from House to Wilson like he was watching a ping pong game.

"So House," Wilson said a few moments later. "Since you're not going to come out and tell me, I'll just ask: What's going on in here?"

House put the bun back on his de-pickled burger and lifted it from the Styrofoam box; some of the cheese clung to the box, tearing part of the bun off. "I'm treating a patient." He bit into the cold hamburger, giving Wilson a look as if what was 'going on' should be obvious.

Wilson nodded. "And I take it that this is something Dr. Cuddy would be better off not knowing about?"

House swallowed and took a sip of his drink. "You take it correctly Wilson."

Wilson nodded. Years of knowing House meant he knew that, whatever House was doing, it was for the good of his patient. He stood up and went over to Kenny's bed; Kenny and Butters both had their eyes fixed on him as he read the label on the I.V. going into Kenny's arm.

"I suppose this means you're not following the usual protocol for this either." Wilson pulled his penlight from his lab coat pocket and shined it into Kenny's right eye; Kenny offered himself up willingly to this examination while Butters nervously walked over to be by Kenny's side. Wilson moved the light to Kenny's left eye and said, "There's no sign of jaundice. You have a reason for treating him with this potent of an antibiotic." It wasn't a question.

"I'm following my gut Wilson."

That was all Dr. Wilson needed to hear. He quickly examined Kenny's fingernails, pinched the skin on the back of Kenny's hand checking for dehydration, checked his pulse and found it was strong and steady, and finally turned back to House and nodded.

"Then I'll leave you to it then. And I should probably go and distract your team." He glanced toward the glass wall where Drs. Chase and Foreman were hovering just outside.

0-0-0-0-0

At just after five in the afternoon as the setting sun was shining in the window, Butters stood up and announced: "I gotta go take the browns to the superbowl."

Dr. House looked puzzled, but Kenny burst out laughing immediately, ending with a brief coughing fit. House was pleased with how quickly he recovered.

"Too much information Leopold," Kenny said, knocking his knuckles against Butters' hip as he walked past on his way to the bathroom. Butters looked back and grinned at them just before he flipped on the bathroom light and exhaust fan and closed the door.

"Hey…House?" Kenny said tentatively. "I have a question."

House regarded him a moment, then grabbed his cane and stood up. He leaned over Kenny, listening to his lungs through his stethoscope and liking what he heard. "Yes?"

"I still haven't worked out why I got sick twice from the same disease." Kenny looked like he'd been thinking about this for awhile. "I mean, like, I've died before from being sick. I even died from pneumonia once. Shit, I died from muscular dystrophy about ten years ago, and that one really fucked me up; I was dead for almost a year after that. But anytime I come back, it's like I'm in a brand new body. I shouldn't have gotten sick again from the same thing."

House looked around the hospital room. Everything Kenny had come in with was put away somewhere; he had nothing to go on except intuition.

"Would you have worn the same clothes afterward? Especially anything close to your mouth and nose?"

Kenny's eyes narrowed. "I almost always wear the same parka with the hood pulled up over my face. Could that have done it?"

"It's possible," House said, considering how unlikely it actually was. "You may have harbored bacteria in it and acquired a reinfection that way. So before you leave here this time, leave your parka in that trash basket over there with the bright red liner."

They heard the toilet flush. "I really need to have that conversation with you," Dr. House said urgently. "Even if you are just a hallucination, at least I know you're a part of my mind that's trying to tell me something. I need to figure out what it is."

Kenny nodded. He knew Butters was about to open the bathroom door, and they only had moments for Kenny to convince him he was sincere, even though he wasn't. "We'll talk soon, House."

House discharged Kenny from the hospital late that evening, giving him a prescription for a ten-day course of antibiotics and watching him throw his parka into the 'medical waste' trash can. House went home and had the first good night's sleep he'd had in four days.

He arrived at his office an hour early the next morning. While Drs. Foreman and Chase had coffee and donuts, he used his time to check his computer, finding about what he had expected. There was no record of a patient named Kenneth McCormick on anything he could find, neither from yesterday nor from four days ago. He was disappointed but not particularly surprised, but there was one more thing to check...

He picked up his phone and punched in the first entry in speed dial. "Wilson! That was, ah, quite a day yesterday, wasn't it?"

He could picture Wilson's eyes narrowing as he replied. "House, we…had lunch right after I finished in the O.R., we watched soap operas in coma guy's room for a couple hours, and your team left early to go to a hockey game. It was a perfectly ordinary day."

House nodded, knowing he would have to get off Vicodin again and hoped he could simply do it by himself this time without the indignity and hassle of rehab. There was no proof of the existence of that patient yesterday except his own memories of him, and House no longer trusted those. He was about to tell Wilson about his new bout with narcotics addiction when his office door opened and Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Hospital Administrator and Dean of Medicine, walked in.

House leaned back in his chair and regarded her. "Uh, I'm going to have to call you back. Cuddy just came in, and she has a very feral look in her eyes."

"Is that Dr. Wilson?" she asked. "Because if it is, don't hang up on him! I'm sure he's involved in this somehow too."

He cocked an eyebrow. "What 'this' would you be referring to?"

"_This_ this." She dropped an envelope on his desk. He could hear Wilson on the other end of the phone asking a question which he ignored as he cradled the phone on his shoulder and slid out the envelope's contents.

"Huh!" he said a moment later. There was a check for $50,000 payable to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital (signed by, and drawn on an account from, someone named 'Mysterion'), but it was the other contents that interested him the most. "Two tickets for monster trucks this weekend! Wilson, what are you doing Friday night?"

"Never mind making plans," Cuddy said impatiently. "Do you have any idea who this 'Mysterion' is? I'd like to thank him or her for this very generous donation."

House looked at her with his best _I haven't got a clue_ look. She shook her head, clearly not believing him. "Whatever, House. If someone comes to mind, I know you'll be sure to let me know." She rolled her eyes, took back the check, and left his office.

"So Wilson," House said, looking more closely at the tickets. They were stuck together on one end, and when he separated them, a small piece of paper fell from them onto his lap. "Actually, let me call you back, but keep Friday night open." He hung up before Wilson had a chance to reply.

He picked up the piece of paper. It was a short note in very stylish calligraphy:

_Dr. House: Sorry we didn't get to talk. Just know that everything I said was true, and one day we'll have drinks in the afterlife and I'll tell you all about it._

_~M~_

He smiled, then leaned back in his chair and reached into his pocket for his bottle of Vicodin.


	4. Chapter 4 The Stand

_"So… another story about Kenny the immortal, and Butters his faithful sidekick." Wendy shook her head sadly. "You ever think about branching out a little, maybe writing about some of the other characters? Maybe write about Stan and Kyle, or Craig and Tweek…"_

_Montana-Bob was still face planted, forehead on his desk. Maybe Wendy will finally leave if he ignored her. Perhaps she would forget about him and move on and give him a chance to finally write in peace. Apparently it wasn't going to happen quite yet as she had one more thing to say: "Maybe you might even write something about me someday?"_

_Bob smacked his forehead against his desk, not hard enough to crack his skull or scramble his brain, just hard enough to hopefully make a point. "Why would I write something about _you_, Wendy?" When she didn't reply after several seconds, he finally looked up at her._

_Bob was stunned by her reaction. She was staring at him wide-eyed, struggling for something to say, her mouth opening and closing like a guppy's. "You're…impossible!" she finally shouted. "You're a bigger moron than Stan _ever_ was!"_

_With that, she fled the room, and Bob stared at her retreating back, wondering what he could have possibly said to have set her off this way. _

**Chapter Track: 'Last Child' - Aerosmith**

**Crossover with: Stephen King's 'The Stand'**

_Summary: Everyone only _thought_ Kenny was immune to the super flu._

_A/N: Long 'short crossover' chapter is long :D_

_This takes place six months after the end of Stephen King's epic novel and/or the miniseries/movie that sprang from it, with one major change: Babies born from two parents who are both immune to the super flu that killed 99.9% of the world's population are __**not**__ necessarily immune themselves. Having a baby in this post-Randall Flagg world inevitably leads to it dying within a few days of the same flu that decimated humanity. It would appear that mankind's days are numbered._

_Disclaimer: I own none of this. If I did, you'd be watching it on Comedy Central instead of reading it here _:-)

**~1~**

"But why is this happening _now_, doctor?" Butters asked, trying not to sound as terrified as he felt and failing. Kenny didn't just have a cold, and he didn't have the regular flu; he had the goddamned Captain Trips super flu and was dying before their eyes. Kenny's grip on Butters' hand was faltering as he lay in the hospital bed, a look of resignation on his face as he struggled to draw his last breaths through an oxygen mask. "Everyone else who wasn't immune died over a year ago!"

Dr. Richardson shook his head. He was as frightened of the implications of what was happening to Kenny as Butters was about losing him. Perhaps the virus had mutated and could now sicken people who were formerly immune to it. If Kenny could suddenly become sick more than a year after everyone else who wasn't immune had died, then any of them could.

"I don't know, Mr. Stotch," he said, looking down at the most important patient he would probably ever have. "I'm making him as comfortable as I can. I'm afraid there's really nothing more I can do."

Kenny could barely hear them talking anymore; he just wished he would fucking _die_ already and be done with it, so he can come back and be able to breathe again. It was hard not to indulge in serious bouts of self-pity when this happened to him every four or five days. Dying this way, drowning in his own fluids, fucking _hurt;_ and the worst part was how Butters always cried and held him near the end, begging him to try to hang on.

And with these thoughts, Kenny felt his throat close up and heard the beginnings of his death rattle. Butters laid his head on Kenny's chest and wept while the world went gray as he suffocated and died.

**~2~**

Kenny awoke in bed thrashing and gasping for air. He knew he'd been dead for a day or two, but it felt like he'd been struggling to breathe just moments ago. His heart pounded hard in his chest as he willed himself to begin breathing normally.

His need for air finally met, he now hoped his rough return from the dead hadn't awakened Butters. This moment, these first few hours of his first day back, were Kenny's only perfect moments anymore. and even though he wanted them to last as long as possible, and he wanted to spend as much time with Butters as he could, he hated when his gasping and kicking his way back to life startled Butters awake. Fortunately, this time Butters slept on, snoring quietly with his back to him.

Their sheets, their pillows, Butters' sweat, everything smelled perfect; the sun was just beginning to shine in the window, and in the tree just outside, birds were singing. Kenny would be content if he could just lie here in bed with Butters, able to breathe like this, forever.

His mouth tightened at the thought that within two or three days, he would begin to get sick again, beginning with what he would try to pass off to Butters as 'just a cold' in order to put off for as long as possible the terror and grief Butters always went through watching him die again. That charade would last a few hours…and within a day he'd be back in the hospital, and a day or two after that he'd be dead again; rinse and repeat.

Butters awoke and squirmed around in the bed they shared to look at him through sleep-lidded eyes. Kenny grinned, glad that he was awake and knew he was about to be treated to Butters' smile. He wrapped his arm around Butters' back to urge him closer and pulled him into a kiss, even before Butters was completely awake.

Butters' eyes finally opened fully and focused on Kenny. He grinned, and Kenny's heart soared in his chest. "G'mornin' sunshine."

"Morning, Buttercup." He pulled him even closer and put a leg over Butters, pressing their bodies together.

"Woah!" Butters said happily, fully awake now. He pressed back against Kenny, rolling him onto his back to lie on top of him, their erections grinding together through their underwear. "Someone's feelin' frisky this morning!"

Kenny wasted no time, slipping his hand past the elastic of Butters' boxers and curling his fingers around his morning wood. "Yeah," Kenny moaned, pressing back up against him. "Someone is."

They pulled each other's' clothes off and made love, Kenny kissing him desperately as they used their hands and mouths and bodies to pleasure each other. They lay against each other minutes later, gasping for air (and Kenny loving every single breath).

"Breakfast," Butters murmured against Kenny's chest some minutes later. Kenny's arms tightened around Butters' back, not willing to let him go yet. Everything seemed to always start to go downhill from here once he and Butters got out of bed on his first day back.

"We hit the trifecta, you know…" Kenny quietly said against Butters' scalp, knowing that he'd already inhaled millions of super flu viruses from Butters. Everyone was a carrier of the disease, but only a lucky few were immune to its deadly effects.

"Oh, I know!" Butters hugged him back. "I thank God every day for it, too. We were so lucky Kenny! That both of us were immune…I wouldn't have wanted to live in this world without you."

"I couldn't do it without you either, Butters." He had said what Kenny most needed to hear, that Butters knew as well as he did how much they depended on each other, even though Butters had no idea what Kenny actually depended on him for. Being shot or hit by a car would be a nice change of pace from the horror Kenny lived through now. He would have lost his mind months ago if it weren't for Butters.

They lay together for a few minutes, then got up for breakfast. Butters was mopping up egg yolk from his plate with a piece of toast when he caught Kenny staring at him. He smiled and Kenny's heart skipped a beat. "What?"

Kenny smiled back. "What, what?"

"You're just lookin' at me like you want to eat me up or something."

"Maybe I do. And maybe later I'll do just that."

They were carrying their dishes to the kitchen sink when there was a knock on the front door.

"I'll get it," Kenny said. They weren't expecting company. He opened the door, took one look at their two friends, Stu Redman and Frannie Goldsmith, and knew immediately something was terribly wrong. Fran's eyes were red from crying, and she looked as though she was barely holding it together. Stu's face was sad and distant. Kenny's eyes narrowed. "Hey…come in, guys." He stepped away from the door. "What's wrong?"

Butters came into the room from the kitchen, and Fran rushed over to him and hugged him desperately, bursting into tears. "Oh honey," Butters wrapped his arms around her and caressed her long auburn hair. "What's the matter?"

"I'm pregnant!" she cried, and dissolved into tears, crying hard against Butters' chest.

Butters looked over her shoulder at Kenny, horrified. The memory of Fran's baby born six months ago (from a father who had died during the super flu outbreak) was still seared into their memories. It had been the first baby born in the Free Zone, and he had lived less than 72 hours before succumbing to the still-lingering flu. Of the 17 babies born since then, most of them to parents who were both immune, none of them had lived longer than four days. Losing that baby six months ago had taken its toll on Fran, and now it seemed she was about to go through it all over again.

"Oh Frannie, I'm sorry!" Butters said. "Come on…let me make you some tea, okay?" She sobbed and nodded, and Butters led her away toward the kitchen, leaving Kenny to deal with Stuart Redman.

"Dude, I'm so sorry!" Kenny said, nodding to their couch. Stu limped over to the couch leaning heavily on his cane and sat; his leg had never healed right after being broken and not set properly six months ago. Kenny went to their dining room and brought back a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from the hutch and sat down next to him. He poured them both generous drinks and handed Stu one of them, thinking it might be a good idea to bring them some ice cubes soon, while he could still walk.

"She can't lose another baby, Ken," Stu said after downing most of his drink in two large gulps. "And I can't go through that again either. Especially knowing it's _my_ child that's going to die this time."

Kenny was lost for words. He leaned over to refill Stu's glass instead. Some situations called for chamomile tea and a gentle caring friend with a shoulder to cry on, and he knew that was going on one room away; this one called for stiff alcohol and someone to curse at and vent their rage to.

"We were being so careful," Stu went on, not raging but in a sad monotone. "She was on the pill, and I always used a condom. We never wanted to let this happen to her again." He swirled his drink around, watching the amber liquid in the bottom of the glass for a moment before raising it and tossing his second drink back.

Kenny gave him a minute while he sipped his own drink, already feeling the effects of the alcohol this early in the morning.

"Maybe I shouldn't ask this, but…have you thought about, you know, what you're going to do?"

Stu nodded sadly, holding his glass out for Kenny to refill again. "We went to talk to Dr. Richardson this morning. We thought it might be best if we…" Stu gestured helplessly. "I mean, what's the use? This flu is still around; every baby that's born dies from it…mankind is over. Flagg still won, even if we defeated him."

Kenny didn't know what to say to him, and wondered how Butters was doing in the kitchen with Fran. Stu saved Kenny from having to find something to fill the silence by continuing.

"He wants us to wait a week to think about it, and then come back with our decision. Frannie and I…we both agree, it's best we just abort the baby." His face crumpled and he pressed his hands over his eyes. "I mean…is that wrong?"

Kenny shook his head. "I don't know if I can really answer that, man." He knew a couple people in the afterlife who could though. Maybe the next time he died, he'd get a chance to ask one of them. At one time, he could have grilled them mercilessly about it, but lately all he ever does is die and wake right up again. "But…yeah, I think it's the right thing. Jesus…bringing a baby into the world just to have it…you know…in a few days." He looked down, studying his own drink. "Yeah, I think it's right."

"You two…" Stu was clearly still uncomfortable when it came to talking about anything to do with two gay men. "You were both together…_before_ the world went to shit. And you were both immune," He was already more than a little drunk. "I've never met another couple who were that lucky. I mean…what are the odds?"

"Yeah." Kenny looked down at his boots. "What are the odds?"

**~3~**

In the early evening of his third day back, just as they were finishing dinner, Kenny suddenly sneezed twice, hard. He grabbed his napkin and blew his nose and looked at the thick grey mucus he'd produced. _Shit…here we go again._

"Sounds like you're coming down with a cold there, mister."

"Yeah." Kenny blew his nose again. "Probably just a little summer cold."

"Those are the worst." Butters went into their kitchen and returned a moment later with a large glass of orange juice. "Why don't you drink this and go up to bed and rest? I'll bring you up some medicine."

"Okay, Dr. Stotch." They grinned at each other and Kenny drank his glass of juice.

Butters came into the bedroom two minutes after Kenny had crawled into bed carrying a glass of water and a capful of green liquid. "Here's some NyQuil, Kenny. It'll make you feel better and help you sleep."

"Hmm." He drank the NyQuil and washed it down with water. "Yuck! Original death green flavor. Let's get some cherry flavor next time we go shopping, okay?"

"Sure thing, Ken!" He set the empty NyQuil cap on the nightstand. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Stay with me?" Kenny replied immediately and sneezed again, grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose.

"Well, of course Kenny!" Butters climbed into bed and lied down, pulling Kenny to him until his head was lying on Butters' chest as he stroked Kenny's hair. It didn't take long for the NyQuil to begin making him feel drowsy. Kenny wrapped an arm around Butters' side and gave him a little squeeze.

"I love you, Butters." He put as much feeling into the words as he possibly could.

"Aww!" Butters replied, kissing the top of his head. "I love you too, Kenny! With all my heart." And with those words, and Butters stroking his hair, Kenny drifted off to sleep, knowing he'd be awake within a couple hours, sick as a dog with a high fever, and would be in the hospital by noon tomorrow.

**~4~**

The moment Kenny awoke, he knew he'd been asleep for many, many hours. Dawn was just starting to light up the eastern-facing window. He rolled over onto his back, took a deep breath, and stared at the ceiling contentedly, as Butters snored softly beside him.

A deep breath?

Memories of last night came rushing back. He took another breath: His head was completely clear, there was no congestion in his chest, no sore throat or body aches, and he knew that he didn't have a fever.

He sat up, breathed deeply again through his nose just to be absolutely sure, and said excitedly, "Butters! Get up—we have to go see Stu and Frannie right now!"

"Wuh…why, Kenny?"

"I'll tell you when we get there. Come on!" Kenny stood up and started getting dressed. "Let's go!"

**~5~**

"I wish you would tell me why we're doing this," Butters complained as Kenny pulled his pickup truck into Stu and Fran's driveway.

"I'll tell you and them at the same time." The truth was, Kenny wasn't quite sure _how_ he was going to explain this, or how he was going to convince them. "Just trust me, all right?"

"You know I do, Ken."

As Kenny stepped out onto the driveway, he looked toward the east; the sun was about to rise, and the almost-new moon was just above the horizon. He stared at the moon and suddenly an idea that seemed almost divinely inspired came to him. He smiled and grabbed Butters' hand. "Come on."

Stu opened the door moments after Kenny knocked on it. "Oh, good morning Kenny, good morning Butters." He stepped back to let them enter. "Frannie was just about to make coffee; would you guys like some?"

"I have to talk to both of you right away," Kenny replied. The urgency in his voice must have gotten through to Stu.

"Frannie!" Stu called toward their kitchen. "Come in here!"

She appeared a moment later in a light blue bathrobe, looking downcast but trying to smile. "Good morning you two."

Kenny strode over to her and took both of her hands into his. "Frannie…I have something very important to tell you. Please hear me out, okay? I…I'm pretty sure it's okay for you to have your baby."

Her mouth dropped open. "Wha…"

Stu looked furious. "You can't…you can't come here and say something like that and give us false hope. Why on earth would you tell us that?"

"Because I had a dream last night!" _That_ managed to catch everyone's attention; they all remembered the common dreams that had been shared by hundreds of survivors, which had ultimately led them here to Boulder Colorado, or further west to Las Vegas, where the dark side of humanity had gathered.

Kenny continued, hoping the lie he was spinning seemed plausible. "I dreamed that…babies were being born here in the Free Zone by the dozens, and none of them caught Captain Trips and died. The flu… mutated or something, and didn't kill people anymore. And this dream was every bit as real to me as the ones that all of us had, the ones that brought us all here."

"Oh my God!" Fran cried. "Oh God…if he's right, Stuart! Maybe we _can_ have this baby! Maybe mankind isn't…finished yet after all."

"I wonder if anyone else had that same dream?" Stu said. "Or if more people will start having it."

"I…don't think anyone else had this dream," Kenny confessed. "It's just a feeling I got. But…I think I know another way we can confirm what I'm telling you."

Stu picked up on it immediately. "Tom Cullen," he said.

"Yeah," Kenny replied. "Let's go pay him a visit…and ask him if he wants to go see an elephant."

**~6~**

Butters loved going to visit Tom Cullen. As the four of them pulled into the driveway of Tom's huge corner lot house, he thought he loved visiting Tom's house and grounds nearly as much as he did the sweet, developmentally-challenged man who lived there.

Tom's yard was adorned with chaos that he referred to as 'landscaping'. At least a dozen department store mannequins were posed in the front yard alone, some in Victorian costumes around a little girl's colorful plastic kitchen play set, some in business attire seated around a long conference table he had liberated from the Boulder First National Bank. A dozen statues of the virgin Mary were scattered throughout the yard, each one holding their hand out, apparently in the act of feeding flocks of large pink plastic lawn flamingos.

They spotted Tom as they parked, working around the side of his house. Tom Cullen couldn't read or write, but he had recently discovered an amazing ability within himself to create incredible works of topiary art.

"Stu and Frannie!" Tom called happily from three rungs up the stepladder he was on. He was working on trimming one of the ears of an eight foot tall Mickey Mouse sculpted from a large juniper bush. He climbed back down, nearly falling over backwards and pulling the ladder over on top of him. "And Kenny and Butters! Some of my favorite people came to call on me today, laws yes!" Tom pulled a worn out pair of gardening gloves off his hands and set them on one of the ladder rungs. "I would have made lemonade or something if I'd known you were going to come visiting today."

"It's okay, Tommy." Kenny said and watched Butters detach himself from their group and go over to Tom to give him a hug. "We just thought we'd pay you a visit."

Tom was obviously delighted by the arrival of his unexpected guests. He thumped Butters' back before releasing him.

"Well, let's go inside my house!" Tom said happily. "I have ice! I can make us some iced tea, laws yet. M-O-O-N, that spells iced tea!"

The inside of Tom's house was even more bizarre than the outside. Stuffed birds –mostly owls and eagles – he had found in a taxidermy shop were suspended from the living room ceiling in between model airplanes plus a giant inflatable space shuttle, all carefully hung from nearly invisible fishing string.

Tom cracked ice trays and filled glasses with ice while Butters made a pitcher of iced tea from a canister of powdered mix.

"It sure is a warm day today, laws yes," Tom said as they all settled around his living room. They made small talk for a few minutes, about the weather and plans for Tom to join Kenny and Butters for a cookout in a few days.

"Tom," Stu leaned forward, arms resting on his thighs. "We wanted to ask you if it would be all right if we hypnotized you again?"

"Oh, like before? 'You are getting verrry sleeeepy…' Well, sure Stu, you can try, but I don't feel at all sleepy! You want me to look at the swinging watch again?"

"Not this time, Tommy." Kenny and Stu exchanged nervous glances. The last time they had done this, the results had been like something from a _Twilight Zone_ episode.

"Well, go ahead and try Stu! I don't think it will work though."

"Tom?" Stu said in a quiet monotone, waiting for Tom to meet his eyes. "Would you like to go see an elephant?"

The effect was immediate. Tom's eyes closed, his head dropped forward, and his body slumped into his chair as the post-hypnotic suggestion that had been planted in him a year ago by Glen Bateman took hold. His breathing deepened to almost a snore…yet they could tell he was still aware of his surroundings.

_Almost like putting a chicken's head under its wing,_ Kenny thought.

"Tom? This is Stu Redman."

"Yes. Stu Redman." Tom's hypnotized voice, coming from his subconscious, was completely different than his regular awake voice. This voice was that of someone who knew he had been denied a normal life.

"Fran is here. And Kenny and Butters."

"Yes. Fran. And Kenny and Butters."

"We're your friends, Tommy."

"I know." A thread of drool stretched from the corner of his mouth and fell to the collar of his plaid shirt. "My friends are here."

Stu was about to proceed when Tom interrupted him

"And the elephant is here," he said in that deep sonorous monotone. "No. I don't want to go see the elephant ever again."

Stu and Kenny looked at each other and shook their heads. The outline they had prepared on the ride over here for how this would proceed had just been thrown out the window.

Stu decided to wing it and asked, "Why not, Tommy?"

"Last time I saw the elephant, he sent me away from here," Tom replied sadly. "He made me leave my home, to go spy on the people in the west. He made me promise to tell anyone who captured me that you all drove me out because I was an idiot, and you didn't want me to infect your gene pool with idiot babies. Tom Cullen doesn't want to leave his home ever again."

"Tommy." Stu's voice was choked; he was barely able to speak. "The elephant doesn't want you to leave your home this time." He wiped his eyes. Kenny was staring at him fascinated, while Butters and Frannie held each other. "He just wants to ask you a question this time."

"You want to know about the babies." Kenny and Stu looked at each other, awestruck; Frannie wept while Butters held her. "Kenny knows," Tom continued. "Kenny knows all the new babies won't die."

Kenny felt the blood rushing from his head. Somehow, Tom Cullen _knew._ Kenny wondered if Tom knew of his immortality and his new and wretched life as well.

"But Kenny can't convince you alone," Tom continued. "So you came to ask Tom Cullen. The doctors at the Center for Disease Control would tell you if they were alive, if they could use their electron microscopes and such, that the virus has mutated, that it's no more lethal now than the common cold." Tom's voice trailed off for a moment, and it seemed that he might have fallen asleep, when he was actually deep in thought.

"Stu and Frannie's baby will be okay." Tom added. "He's going to grow up to be a fine man too."

"He?" Stu said, a big goofy grin slowly spreading across his face. "I'm going to have a son!"

**~7~**

Seven months later, Fran went into labor, and while the entire population of the Free Zone waited anxiously to learn the outcome, she gave birth to a healthy, screaming eight pound baby boy.

Ten days later, while a winter storm raged outside their home, Butters settled back on their couch while Fran carefully laid his and Kenny's godson on his chest. They'd given him the name Thomas Kenneth Leopold Redman. The baby reached up and tried to grab Butters' nose.

"He's beautiful Fran," Butters said, leaning down so the baby could explore his face with his tiny fingers.

"He sure is you guys," Kenny said from all the way across the room. "I can't wait to hold him too, but I'd better stay away until I get over this cold."

"You sure are getting a lot of colds lately Kenny," Butters told him, bouncing his knee a little and making the baby smile at him.

"Maybe I need more vitamin C or something," Kenny replied. In the seven months since they'd hypnotized Tom Cullen, he had only died once when the truck he was driving hit a patch of ice and went over a cliff. Between that and the almost weekly head colds he got now, Kenny thought that the way things were these days was something he could live with.

THE END


End file.
